Another
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: A snapshot of Wilson in the aftermath of No Reason. No slash. Please read and review. Thanks.


A/N: Out of the blue piece.

No slash. Please read and review.

Listen to **"Song to the Siren" by This Mortal Coil**.

* * *

_Another_

* * *

In those nights after the shooting, he found himself grappling for a sign of God's presence, paying no mind to his own hypocrisy and unworthiness of divine attention. He returned to the local temple for the first time in six years, his last visit having been for the same reason. He spent night after night huddled in the solitary, post-service hours. The rabbi noted his bent head of tousled hair, the absence of a yarmulke, but never disturbed him. He sat on the edge of the row, his hands bracing against the back of the following one, sometimes pressing his face into his knuckles. He didn't know what to say. He had forgotten most of the Hebrew prayers, at least in these moments. He couldn't bring himself to even say aloud what had happened. Not even to God. In the absence of words, he breathed, swallowed. Sometimes he wept into the backs of his hands. He spent three nights sitting in the temple, before he decided to look elsewhere for solace.

It happened without any effort from him. Blythe had been sitting in the waiting room on the fourth night, as he left his office. He had been surprised to see her, though he had known someone must've called her with the news. He could see the wet ghosts in her wrinkles, the color gone. She embraced him, though she was more upset than he was, and he couldn't bring himself to return the gesture. Instead, he let himself be led to the chairs, and she sat with him, mumbling. In the end, she was the one who got up to leave, deciding to go back into her son's room and spend the rest of the night there. He watched her go and didn't get up until he was totally alone, but before he did, his eyes fell to the black beads on the nearest coffee table. He picked them up gingerly, staring at them for moment after moment, and he decided.

The nearest church was St. Mary's, a Catholic congregation. It was another empty house, save for a few stray figures moving alongside the altar, kneeling before the votive candles. He felt misplaced, as if God and the strangers knew he was Jewish, but he chose a pew and knelt. The church was dark except for the candles, offering him a small comfort of anonymity, but again, he found himself at a loss about what to do. He clutched the rosary in one hand, his head bowed once more. He rolled one bead in between his thumb and forefinger, ignoring the cross as if it did not exist. The beads soothed him; he always needed something to hold on to when faced with difficulty.

He swallowed, the words waiting to leave his tongue, but he couldn't. He felt his heart tremble, resting his head against his curled fist. He sighed, felt the beads touch his lips.

"He bled."

It was a whisper, a whisper against the beads.

"This time, he bled."

It is all he had seen these past four nights – the blood following him. He hadn't been in the room when the shooting had taken place. He hadn't been with the gurney, rushing to an OR. He had been spared the sight until he found the conference room empty, the stain on the floor. He had been spared until he reached the operating wing and caught a glimpse of the soaked gauze. He had never seen House bleed, save for the occasional drunk punch to the nose. He had never seen House's blood. Not like that – too much to forget or ignore. Somehow, it made this seem worse than the infarction.

He squeezed his eyes shut, the aftertaste of those words sinking down his throat in a hard way. He felt his chest clench. The cross dangled out of his sight, its silver lost in the dark. He began, at last, to cry. Not like the nights in the temple. He began to cry unashamed, clutching the beads. Tears snaked down his nose, clinging to the tip, dropping one by one into their abyss. He cried only now, kneeling. No one ever knew or saw – because that is the only way a man like him could go about this right. In the days to come and always, he would be strong. He would comfort women who cared less than he did. He would be the immaculate best friend. He would be unaffected when those blue eyes saw him again.

But now he was real. He felt the salt. Something inside of him wanted to go forth, to the altar, but he kept himself in check. Someone else's God may be compassionate, but He was still someone else's.

He waited until he was finished with the fear, dried his eyes on his shoulders, and made the walk down the aisle. He didn't look up at the altar. Instead, he found a long, empty space before the votive candles, and with the other anonymous prayers swaying in his eyes, he lit his own.

The beads slept in his hand.


End file.
